Читать книгу Vintage Murder - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 14

Before going to the theatre young Courtney Broadhead called in at the Middleton and asked for Mr Gordon Palmer. He was sent up to Mr Palmer’s rooms, where he found that young man still in bed and rather white about the gills. His cousin and mentor, Geoffrey West, sat in an arm-chair by the window, and Mr Francis Liversidge lolled across the end of the bed smoking a cigarette. He, too, had dropped in to see Gordon on his way to rehearsal it seemed.

The cub, as Hambledon had called Gordon Palmer, was seventeen years old, dreadfully sophisticated, and entirely ignorant of everything outside the sphere of his sophistication. He had none of the awkwardness of youth and very little of its vitality, being restless rather than energetic, acquisitive rather than ambitious. He was good-looking in a raffish, tarnished sort of fashion. It was entirely in keeping with his character that he should have attached himself to the Dacres Comedy Company and, more particularly, to Carolyn Dacres herself. That Carolyn paid not the smallest attention to him made little difference. With Liversidge and Valerie he was a great success.

‘Hullo, Court, my boy,’ said Gordon. ‘Treat me gently. I’m a wreck this morning. Met some ghastly people on that train last night. What a night! We played poker till – when was it, Geoffrey?’

‘Until far too late,’ said Weston calmly. ‘You were a young fool.’

‘He thinks he has to talk like that to me,’ explained Gordon. ‘He does it rather well, really. What’s your news, Court?’

‘I’ve come to pay my poker debts,’ said Courtney. He drew out his wallet and took some notes from it. ‘Yours is here too, Frankie.’ He laughed unhappily. ‘Take it while you can.’

‘That’s all fine and handy,’ said Gordon carelessly. ‘I’d forgotten all about it.’